Copyright Sr. Josephine Palmeri 2007
Soon to be published by Trafford Publishers: MORE TALES FROM THE BARBER SHOP AND PITTSTON

The wig was ugly! Flo thought she was helping mother by bringing the brown “furry critter” as a get-well gift.
“It’s best to have a wig before you lose your hair” Flo said. “Later you’ll be too sick from the chemo to go shopping for it”.
Mom looks at the fake hair her cousin was holding and said sweetly, “Florence, let’s not dance until the music starts.” Flo insisted, so mother took the wig to be polite, and hung it on the wooden peg of her bedroom mirror, where it hung unused.
Instead of “cross that bridge when you come to it,” my mother liked to say, “Don’t dance ’til the music starts.” She began to wave her arms around like a wild woman, and said, “See? If you dance without music playing you look crazy, right?” We laughed until tears fell, and laughed even more as we took turns trying on the wig.
And mother was right! One of those people who do not go bald from chemo, she never needed a wig. It hung there to remind us not to worry in advance over things that may never happen.
We had many visitors that last year of mother’s life who enjoyed hearing about the wig and “don’t dance ’til the music starts.”
My convent gave me a leave of absence to care for mother that year. Although terminally ill, she was joyful and positive. Neighbors and relatives loved to visit. The coffee pot was always perking, and the table set with our blue willow-ware dishes. Since she was a good listener and disliked repeating gossip, visitors told mother their problems and asked her advice.
Near our home was a high school, where I sometimes worked as a substitute teacher, a job I enjoyed. One day I had my first run-in with a troublesome teen. “I dread going back tomorrow, Mom” I told her. “The principal said everyone finds that boy hard to handle.”
“Honey, maybe he’ll be good tomorrow,” she offered. “They might not even give you his class. Enjoy today. Dance only when the music starts.”
The next day I scanned my sub assignment. Rats! I did have the trouble-maker’s class. Not until last period, but I let it cloud my otherwise pleasant day.
When zero hour arrived, I learned the problem child was absent! And as good luck had it, his teacher never missed another day, so I never had his class again. A wasted worry!
Visitors kept streaming to see mother. The rug literally wore out and we re-carpeted the entire first floor with a handsome dark green called “Mallard”. Company relaxed in mother’s calm presence and she enjoyed them.
Mary Theresa, who taught at the same school with me, dropped by one day with roses, intending to stay just a minute. She had never met my mother, but wanted to pay her respects. “You look tired,” Mom said. “I’m feeling down,” admitted Mary Theresa, “I miss my dad who just died.”
“Tell me about him,” invited mother. And the young teacher sat near the sickbed, pouring out a heart full of emotions to a captive audience. Mother was delighted with the beautiful, blue-eyed visitor, with her waist-length blonde hair, and Mary Theresa was comforted by Mother’s undivided attention. She stayed for supper: pasta primavera made with crushed garlic cloves sauteed in olive oil, and tossed with parmesan cheese. I looked up occasionally from my stove to glance at the sick woman and the young girl in the next room, completely absorbed in each other’s company. Years later, Mary Theresa would remind me that it had been one of her most memorable evenings.
Each day of chemotherapy, mother went to the hospital all dressed up in a different outfit. There was the red dress, the gold suit, the teal blue, the leather jacket with black slacks and heels. When neighbors asked where she was going, she’d call out, “For a beauty treatment!”
Once mom overheard me tell a neighbor about the awful nausea following chemo. “Honey, don’t give details”, she said. “People have their own troubles. They’re trying to be kind. When they ask how I am, just say, ‘Coming along, thank you!’ ”
We remembered a joke my dad had told years ago:

Don’t tell folks about your indigestion.
“How are you?” is a greeting -- not a question.

Mom liked to quote from the poem, “Optimism,” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox:

You cannot charm, or interest, or please
By harping on that minor chord -- disease!
Say you are well, say all is well with you,
And God will hear your words -- and make them true!

“Don’t you dread chemo?” a friend once asked.
Her answer: “I don’t think about it until I get there. Dance when the music starts. Remember what Shakespeare said: ‘The coward dies a thousand deaths. The valiant only taste of death but once.’ ”
To distract ourselves during chemo, Mother and I told the silly “elephant jokes” of the sixties. We had our own little dialogue:

Q: How can you tell if an elephant is following you?
A: By the smell of peanuts on his breath.
Q: How can you tell if an elephant is in your fridge?
A: By his footprint in the butter.
Q: Why do elephants paint their toenails red?
A: So you can’t see them when they’re hiding in cherry trees.

Our routine brought comic relief not only to us, but also to the nurse, especially when Mom gave the right answer to the wrong question.
On Good Friday, a rookie nurse stabbed Mother’s bruised little arm three times before finding a “good spot” on the vein. I began a joke. Leaning back in her chair, Mom whispered, “No elephant jokes. It’s Good Friday. Three nails pierced Our Lord.” No whining. Just her simple belief in the redemptive value of suffering when united with Christ’s.
A friend once asked, “Why did this happen to a good person like you? This isn’t fair!”
“Yes it is!” Mom protested. “I got away with sickness for 80 years -- never in a hospital! That wasn’t fair. Before this, I looked like 60. Now I look 80. Well, I am 80, so it’s fair. Little children get cancer, but I got away with it too long. Anyway, look what happened -- I got my daughter back. I gave her to God when she became a nun, and now He sent her back to take care of me.”
Her friend worried, “What if the convent orders your daughter to return next year?” Mom shrugged, “I might be on another planet this year. Anyway, let’s not dance ’til the music starts.”
Thanks to my godchild Faye, a nurse, who stayed at our house many nights to help me, Mother never had to go to a nursing home. If a death could be called “beautiful,” hers was. I had just cleaned the house to perfection, since friends were coming to visit. A new amber light bulb in the parlor lamp cast a golden glow on the room. The a storm watch was predicted, so our friends called to postpone their visit.
It was just Mother and I. I watched her sit with closed eyes in her recliner chair, dressed in pink pajamas, bathed and smelling of rose lotion. Knowing she was took weak to talk, I thought she might like to hear something from the book I was reading. I read psalms and other lovely prayers. “This is so peaceful, Mommy,” I said. “Here we are in our own living room. The house is clean and beautiful, bathed in golden light. It’s dark and snowing out, but warm and toasty here.” She emitted a slow, peaceful sigh...and was gone. It was a moment I will always treasure.
Once I had worried about being alone in the house when Mother died. But now I was happy that no one was with me, to talk or cry or break the beauty of the moment. It had come, and I was at peace. A sense of loss pervaded me, yes, and tears would come later, but right now I was at peace. She and I had often talked about eternity and the joy of the afterlife. Why had I ever worried about being afraid? Don’t dance...until the music starts.
Mother is gone nine years now, but I still hear her gentle, reassuring voice. “Honey, enjoy the present moment. What you fear may never happen. And if it does, God will be with you. Dance...when the music starts.”

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